


the difference between night and day

by thequidditchpitch_archivist



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Dark, Erotica, F/M, Heterosexual Sex, The Quidditch Pitch: Erotic Couplings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-08-09
Updated: 2006-08-09
Packaged: 2018-10-26 14:50:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,584
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10788900
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thequidditchpitch_archivist/pseuds/thequidditchpitch_archivist
Summary: "He should have savored it, because the next day he was sent on a new mission guarding Pansy Parkinson. And now he was here."





	the difference between night and day

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Annie, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [The Quidditch Pitch](http://fanlore.org/wiki/The_Quidditch_Pitch), which went offline in 2015 when the hosting expired, at a time I was not able to renew it. I contacted Open Doors, hoping to preserve the archive using an old backup, and began importing these works as an Open Doors-approved project in April 2017. Open Doors e-mailed all authors about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact us using the e-mail address on [The Quidditch Pitch collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/thequidditchpitch/profile).

  
Author's notes: Thanks to Alissomora and Mrs_B for the betas.   


* * *

the difference between night and day

The room shakes again. Her body, so small and cold, gives a violent shiver as she curls further into him. He squeezes her hand, just once, to give reassurance he doesn’t feel. _This is it_ , he reckons through the impenetrable black, thick and heavy like a smothering hex. His jaw is caked with blood, his arm burns, and his leg has gone numb. His stomach contracts with the familiar ache of fear and hunger. He thinks maybe he should welcome death after so many hours, days (weeks?) of misery, face the dark night bravely. But he’s so tired of the dark. He squeezes her hand again. He doesn’t want to die, not yet.

Another blast echoes outside the room.

He knows he’ll die. They’re unarmed, weak, outnumbered, and completely alone. He should go first, he thinks suddenly, wildly - at least try to protect her, however futile the attempt. With every muscle protesting, he leans on his better arm to push himself away from the sticky dampness of the wall. "Get -." His voice hurts. He swallows. Their water supply ran out yesterday. "Get behind me," he croaks to her.

"Won’t matter," she whispers back as she leans hard against him. "Please don’t move."

He collapses back against the wall, breathing heavily. "Okay," he says quietly, the desperation leaking out of him along with his strength. "Okay." His arm hurts. He wraps it around her.

His eyes shut against the shadows, and he pictures Harry and Hermione. It’s a surprise that he still remembers what they look like. Hermione will be undone when he doesn’t come back to her. Into his mind floats an image: she’s dressed in black robes, her face library pale and drawn as tears mark wet lines down her cheeks; Harry, beside her, is holding her up as he clenches his jaw and blinks fiercely.

He gives his head a slow, painful shake and pushes the picture away in favor of another: the three of them, laughing, playing chess in a common room he hasn’t seen in almost two years, a room warm and rich, with laughter and bravery woven into every tapestry that lines the walls. He smiles and sinks closer to the body beside him.

The light blinds him, then. It comes from all sides, and it burns burns burns, like being drenched in flame. He didn’t think death would be so bright.

And then he hears his name.

*

The first thing Ron noticed was the dark. The second thing he noticed was the cold. The third was the overwhelming urge to piss.

And that every damn inch of his body, lying on a hard, wet floor, hummed with pain. He groaned loudly and brought a hand to his pounding head.

"You’re up," stated a flat voice from somewhere in the vague direction of his feet. He jerked his head towards the disembodied sound, watering eyes vainly scanning the darkness. "I was beginning to think it’d never happen; you’ve been out for a while."

Ron swore, loudly. "Parkinson?" he asked. Silence answered him, but he was used to that. "Where the hell are we?"

He heard a long suffering sigh. "What’s the last thing you remember?" she said in her patented bored, inbred, _I have too much money and I’d rather be ordering house elves around but I’m forced having to tolerate you_ voice. As if this was another day in hiding.

Ron scowled, slowly righting himself. "The last thing I remember was trying to protect your pathetic arse when we were attacked at the supposedly very safe flat by the obviously very dangerous Death Eaters." He brought his hand down from his head and began patting himself down. No wand, no Muggle mobile, no watch. Shite.

"Well, you did a marvelous job. You protected _my arse_ right into being a hostage. My hero," she intoned scathingly.

Ron put his hand to the floor, feeling the space around him. It wasn’t wet, he realized, so much as damp, like grass with morning dew, and very, very cold. He moved his hand to the left until he hit the juncture where the wall met the ground, and scooted on his bum until he could use the wall for support. Very slowly, he pulled himself to his knees. His body made its disapproval known with each labored movement.

"Do you know where we are?" His lungs hurt, and he shut his eyes against a wave of nausea.

"A dungeon, from what I can tell." Her voice seemed to get further away as his head swam. He leaned heavily against the wall, keeping his eyes closed.

"But where?"

She was silent. After a moment, she admitted, "I don’t know." Her voice sounded different, quieter. Ron thought maybe she was lying.

He opened his eyes when the nausea subsided to a reasonable level and pulled himself up completely. The wall he was leaning against was smooth, damp like the floor, and stretched only a few inches over his head, where it joined a similar ceiling. He ran his hands along it, inching his way around the perimeter of his prison.

"What’s the last thing you remember?" he asked, trying to keep his voice even. Were they being monitored? He imagined so. He thought he might wet himself soon.

"Not much," she said, her voice getting closer as he moved. "There were at least eight of them, maybe more. You went down, hit by two stunners at the same time. And then they must have stunned me. I woke up here – ouch! What the hell are you doing?"

"Sorry," he mumbled, not feeling particularly apologetic at all. She was huddled against the wall, legs drawn up to her chest. He shuffled around her. "I’m trying to find a door."

"There isn’t one. I already checked."

"Hmmm," Ron hummed, moving past her, hands still feeling along the wall as if reading Braille. It didn’t make any sense. According to Harry, Voldemort wanted Pansy Parkinson dead, just as he supposedly wanted her whole inbred family dead. Why keep her alive and locked up with him, the man assigned to protect her?

"I don’t know how long we’ve been here," Parkinson offered, "but I woke up about an hour ago. I think. They took my watch."

"Not that you could read it anyway." He brought a hand to his chin, feeling the almost-smooth skin. "We haven’t been here that long," he surmised. “I shaved this morning." He was at a corner. His feet hit something. Quickly, Ron bent down: a bucket – no – two buckets. One full of sloshing liquid, one empty. Ron sniffed. "Did you piss in one of these buckets?"

She made a disgusted noise. "No, Weasley, I didn’t relieve myself in one of the buckets."

"Must be water, then," he mumbled. He stuck a finger in the full bucket and cautiously placed it on his tongue. "Yep, water." With careful hands, he picked the container up and moved it a few paces along the wall before coming back to the corner.

"What are you doing?" she said.

"I’m going to piss myself if I don’t go to the loo," he answered, smiling briefly at the thought of annoying her. "I’m using the empty bucket."

He heard her sigh. "Just stay away from me," she said. Her voice sounded muffled, as if she was hiding her head in her lap.

"Let’s hope my aim is good."

She made another disgusted noise as he let out a sound of relief, sagging against the wall with his free arm. His head was still spinning.

When he was done _relieving himself_ , he straightened his clothing under his robe and continued his mission. She was right; there wasn’t any door, not as far as he could tell, and now that he’d emptied his bladder, he realized his throat was parched. He sat down gingerly by the water. "D’you want some water?" he asked as he put both hands around the pail and lifted it to his lips, like a child holding an overlarge cup.

"No."

He shrugged and drained half the bucket in large gulps. It tasted stale, and was surprisingly warm for how cold the room was.

Thirst reasonably quenched, Ron looked in the direction of Parkinson’s voice. "I thought Voldemort wanted you dead," he said plainly. "Why didn’t he just kill you?"

"The Dark Lord doesn’t make me privy to his thoughts, Weasley." She paused. "Why didn’t he just kill you?"

"He probably thinks I’ll tell him where Harry is, if he tortures me enough. But he should know," Ron said loudly, in case they were listening, "I’ll be better off dead. I’d never give Harry’s location away, even if I knew."

On the other side of the room, Parkinson snorted. "If the Dark Lord wants to get Potter’s location out of you, he will. He - ." Ron heard her swallow. "He has ways."

Ron ignored the tremor in her voice. "We’ve figured out why he’s keeping me alive," he said. "The big question, though, is you. Why would he keep you alive? Unless…"

"Unless what?" she snapped.

Ron narrowed his eyes and leaned his head against the wall. "Unless you’re supposed to gain my trust. Prisoners locked up together, sharing big, scary things, sharing little, intimate secrets. Funny, isn’t it, that we’re in a safe place for less than a week and they find us? It’s almost as if someone told them where we’d be."

She was silent, not that Ron had expected an answer. He closed his eyes and forced down the panic that was scratching at his insides. He focused only on his breathing, trying not to think about anything else. Harry, Hermione….

He didn’t speak again. Neither did she.

*

Hours later, he was startled out of his dream. He’d been playing Quidditch with Draco Malfoy. Malfoy was guarding the tall hoops, and every few minutes he’d unceremoniously turn into Pig with a loud crack. Hermione stood on the ground, taking notes on Ron’s performance. Wicked, she’d called it, grinning at him. Draco went pop again, turned into an owl, and Ron jumped awake.

It took a few moments to realize his eyes were open. He blinked, once, twice, trying to purge the sleep and sticky darkness from his mind. No luck. Something hovered at his elbow. He reached out tentative fingers to find a bowl of steaming… something in front of him. Across the room, Parkinson breathed the shallow breaths of one sleeping fitfully. He called to her and her breathing changed, though she didn’t answer. "There’s food here, if you’re hungry." He felt along the wall. "And water… which has filled up again."

Still not receiving an answer, Ron finger-fed himself, letting what could only be described as hot gruel slide messily down his throat. "Are you sure you don’t want any?" She made a noise of dissent. Dipping his fingers into the bowl again, Ron imagined the idea of sharing food with him revolted her. The looks she had given this past week, whenever he’d sat down at the table to eat, were looks of horror and revulsion at his "uncouth, ill mannered and horrid upbringing". They’d told him enough. Let her starve. He swallowed thickly, wondering if maybe she was better off. The food was awful.

When he’d choked down all that he could, he set the bowl next to the water and curled into a ball.

Just last week, he’d been eating his mother’s cooking, perched in a chair next to Harry as they’d greedily shoveled forkfuls of roast beef into their mouths while Hermione’d watched in muted horror. Ron had grinned at her around his mouthful. "You should really slow down," she’d cautioned. "You’ll give yourself a cramp."

"Why –." He’d waggled his eyebrows at her. " - you planning on some physical activity later?" Beside him, Harry had choked on his food, while Hermione’s cheeks had heated becomingly beneath the light smattering of freckles across her cheeks. Evidence of time spent in the sun.

He’d been happy. Sure, there’d been a war raging on, and attempts on his life had become commonplace. And yes, people were dying, and more often than not, his body hurt and his head was too full to sleep and he was filled with a constant worry that every owl would herald the death of another loved one. But he should have savored that moment, sitting around with people he cared for, knowing he’d soon go upstairs and touch Hermione until her usual reserve broke and she begged him with her cinnamon-heated eyes to touch her again. He should have savored it, because the next day he was sent on a new mission guarding fucking Pansy Parkinson. And now he was here.

Was anybody looking for them? Was Hermione worried? Did they even know he’d been captured?

Ron shut his eyes. It was a long time before sleep claimed him.

*

He woke up to find Parkinson on her hands and knees next to him, feeling around.

"Mmmph, what’r you doin’?" Instinctively, he grabbed her wrist tightly as he blinked. Darkness. Again.

Her body stiffened slightly. Beneath his fingers her skin was cool and her pulse a thing like lightning. She tried to yank her arm out of his grasp. "I’m not doing anything," she hissed.

He squeezed her flesh and she let out a sound of pain. She would have a bruise. "I don’t have anything on me, if you’re looking for a weapon."

He heard her sigh. He was getting damn sick and tired of her sighs. "I’m trying to find the water, you ingrate. Where did you put it?"

Directing her hand to the pail fitted into the corner nearest him, he finally let go of her wrist. "Don’t move it too far," he warned. "We don’t want to get it confused with the other bucket." She ignored him, but he could hear her greedily gulping down the water. "There’s food here too," he said, thrusting the bowl in her direction.

"You talk in your sleep," she told him when she was back on her side of the cell. "It’s annoying.

Ron ignored her. He laid down again, listening to the sound of his heartbeat, her breathing, and the silent black that was seeping into his veins.

*

She made him hum when she peed. Or she’d hold it, she’d said, until her bladder burst, and then he’d be stuck with her corpse. He hummed the Cannons’ fight song loudly every time, because he remembered she’d had a Falcons’ patch stitched on her knapsack at Hogwarts.

*

Judging by his beard, three, maybe four days had passed. Ron stood from his usual spot next to the water and began his ritual walk around the perimeter of the room. It was a square, seven feet by seven feet by seven feet, he guessed, and magically rigged so that even wandless magic could not be preformed inside. He’d tried.

Stepping around Parkinson’s sleeping form as he traced his hands along the wall, he thought back on the last time he’d let his beard grow this long. They’d been hunting Horcruxes, just the three of them, eighteen months ago. Hermione didn’t like the beard, said it made her face itch, but he wasn’t _with her_ with her until they’d returned from their six month quest and had been forced to inform other members of the Order of their plans. Luxuries such as shaving had been forgone in favor of getting as much sleep as possible when they’d been constantly on the move. Plus, it’d made him feel mature. He scratched his chin. Now, it made him feel old.

Finished with his walk, Ron moved to the center of the room and began a series of push-ups. After every ghastly bowl of gruel that was conjured into the room via unseen magic, Ron took a walk; then he did push-ups, sit-ups, squats, stretches that pulled his muscles, anything to keep his mind from spinning out of control. The nausea was always there, the food did little to satisfy any real hunger he had, and the dark was an ever constant force pressing in from all sides, but moving was better than sitting, better than thinking. And certainly better than talking to Parkinson, who rarely bothered to respond to him anyway.

She never moved either, just sat in her ball on the other side of the room, as if needing to be as far away from him as possible. She’d been like that when they were in hiding as well, never even staying in the same room with him if she could help it, though then he’d been able to occupy his mind with books, with charmed, one-sided chess, and with the black and white Muggle television in the front room of the (not so) hidden flat. When none of that had worked, he’d been easily distracted by erotic dreams of Hermione. Whenever she entered his mind here, however, he pushed her away. Hermione had no place in this dark, stifling cold. She was better left somewhere else.

Maybe Parkinson moved when he slept. Maybe their captors offered her real food when he wasn’t awake. He couldn’t tell. He must have slept, though there were times when it felt he had been awake his whole life, trapped in darkness. Other times, he wasn’t certain if he wasn’t just sleeping through it all. Maybe he was asleep right now.

"Would you stop that?" He had moved on to sit-ups when her clear, sharp voice broke through the sound of his heavy breathing. "You’re going to start sweating and then it’s going to smell."

"I thought you were asleep." He stood to touch the ceiling with his fingertips.

"I’ve been awake since before you started your usual useless walk around the room," she said with a haughty voice. Amazing, that she could sound haughty after having been locked away in the dark for days on end.

"Are you hungry? There’s some food left," he said, moving towards his spot again.

"No, I’m not hungry. Not for that."

"You have to eat something," he said.

"I’ll be fine," she insisted.

"I’ll bet," Ron mumbled, thinking back to his original thought that she was somehow in on his capture. He sat back down by the water. "Care to tell me why the fuck I was protecting you?"

"What?"

He could tell she had moved to a sitting position. His skin was hyper aware, and he imagined it picked up on miniscule movements in the air. "No one ever told me, not really, why we were keeping you safe. It was apparently on a need to know basis only." He didn’t bother keeping the bitterness out of his voice, thinking back on the massive row he’d had with Harry and Lupin about protecting a Slytherin and known supporter of Voldemort. "Care to tell me why?"

"It’s none of your damn business, Weasley." Her voice was like liquid ice, cold and low and menacing.

"I just figured that since I’ve been thrown into the pits of hell for you, you’d explain why."

"You’ve been thrown into the pits of hell –." He didn’t think it was possible to actually hear someone roll their eyes. " – Because you chose to fight with people who betrayed their blood." She paused, quieter. "So did I."

Ron leaned forward. "How did you, then?"

She didn’t answer. "I have to use the loo," she said instead. Ron wasn’t terribly surprised. This was the most he’d had out of her since their initial capture, since he’d first starting spending _any_ time with her. He leaned back against the wall.

He could feel her start to stand. "Will you hu-." An invisible door opened, shutting her up. The wand light cutting through their darkness was just as blinding, aimed right at his eyes.

Ron was up immediately and moving over to Parkinson, who had sat down abruptly. With his head turned away from the light, he studied her face. It was the first time he’d seen her pug nose in days. She looked a mess, frightened and tired and thin. Ron imagined he couldn’t look much better. Her eyes were round and smudged with purple bruises, focused on the outline of the man in front of them, who had lowered the light just enough so that Ron could see him.

He didn’t recognize the man, though his menacing eyes and the threatening white gleam of his teeth told Ron all he needed to know. So did the wand pointed directly at his heart.

He heard Parkinson’s scream just before the red light hit his chest.

*

He woke up in darkness again. Familiar, horrible, painful darkness. Something was different, though. He ached everywhere, like he hadn’t since the first time he’d awoken here. And his head was resting on a pillow. He moved his cheek along the scratchy fabric. No, his head was resting in a lap.

"You’re up," said a voice above him. "I was wor – I didn’t think you’d get up."

His head was in Parkinson’s lap. He tried to sit up; immediately, pain knifed through his whole body. He lay back down. "What happened?" He was shaking. Why hadn’t he ever realized it was so fucking cold in here?

"I don’t know," she said. "Do you remember that man coming in here?" He tried to nod against her lap. "After he stunned you, they levitated you away. I don’t how long you were gone – three or four hours at least – and when they brought you back you were barely conscious. I think they put a memory charm on you; you were completely delirious. You fell asleep right away, but then you started throwing up." She swallowed sickly. "I came over here to make sure you didn’t choke on your own vomit, and you fell asleep again."

She placed cool fingers on his forehead. "How do you feel?"

Ron swallowed. His throat felt like he’d been screaming for days. "Is there any water?"

"Oh, sure." Her fingers left his head and he felt her twist around above him. "The bucket’s right here."

He made to sit up again, but found he couldn’t. He thought he might pass out. "I don’t know if I can…."

"Here," she said. A moment later, her hand was at his mouth, cupped around a palmful of water. It slipped between her fingers and slid down his chin as he turned his head to lap it up. He was too tired to be self-conscious. She scooped water out of the bucket a few more times before even lifting his head a few inches from her lap became too much for him.

He put his head back down and slipped once again into blissful unconsciousness.

*

When he next awoke, she was sleeping curled up next to him. He found he could move now, though it was still excruciating. They must have Crucio’d him. Part of him was grateful for the memory charm, though the abyss of his mind, not knowing what secrets he may have spilled in torture, was enough to make him want to puke again.

He sat up slowly, gritting his teeth in an effort not to cry out, and began taking stock of his injuries: a bump on his head; a scratch on his cheek; tightness in his chest, as if the air had been knocked repeatedly out of him. His ankle hurt, as if it’d been broken and then sloppily mended, and his wrist throbbed. Then there was his throat, sore from screaming or vomiting or both. He was dizzy and tired and hungry, but he’d grown used to all of that. Not as bad as it could have been then. He wasn’t dead. Not yet.

He began feeling his way around, to find the piss pail (as he’d termed the bucket a few days ago) when she stirred. "Hey," he said softly, shuffling on his knees around the cell.

"What are you doing?"

"I have to take a leak."

"Oh."

He settled down next to her against the wall. Their legs were lined up, from hip to toe. They sat in silence for a few minutes. She breathed softly through her mouth. Seconds slipped away and wondered if he should thank her for helping him. The words were stuck in his throat. "I wonder if I saw Voldemort," he said finally, unable to sit in silence any longer. "I can’t remember."

She took a sharp intake of breath. "You shouldn’t call him that," she cautioned.

"Why not?" He shrugged. "Harry does all the time, and anyway, saying it isn’t going to make him materialize in this room. There’s no reason to be afraid of his name, not anymore, not when he’s out there in the flesh. That’s who we should be afraid of."

"You sound like you’re quoting your mudblood girlfriend’s views. Is that what Granger tells you, that you have nothing to fear?"

Ron turned his head in the direction of her voice. "Don’t," he growled in a low voice, "talk about Hermione to me. Not ever."

"Fine." She got up and moved away, likely to her usual spot opposite him. "I won’t."

Ron found he was colder, now that she had moved. He shivered and rested his head back against the wall.

When he woke back up, still sitting, Parkinson was beside him again.

*

"I wonder what time it is?" He lifted his head off the wall behind him and turned towards Parkinson. Her shoulder pressed against his.

"Why? It’s always midnight now." She said this harshly, but he could hear the tremor in her voice.

"Maybe not," he said. "Maybe it’s dawn, and the sun is just rising over the horizon and it’s pretty and it’s perfect. I love sunrises." He smiled, thinking about the many eastern mornings he’d had with Hermione next to him, tired and beautiful and fiery and perfect.

"You’re delirious, Weasley. Neither of us will ever see the sun again."

"If you close your eyes, you can see it," he said, resting his head against the wall. "It’s wonderful."

*

They didn’t wait as long the next time, Ron was certain, before they took him out of the cell again. He was still moving gingerly around the black, still dizzy every time he stood, when the wand light was again pointed at this chest. He can’t remember if he heard Pansy scream.

When he woke up, his head was on her lap again, and she was quietly humming the Cannons’ fight song.

*

The bowl appeared with its usual pop, startling Ron out of his reverie. He nudged Pansy on her leg. "Parkinson, food’s here."

She lifted her head off of his shoulder. "Oh," she murmured sleepily, "I’m hungry."

"Did you drool on my robes again, then?" Ron asked, plucking the bowl out of the air and settling it on the floor in front of him.

"I don’t drool, Weasley," Pansy said. Ron smiled when he felt her hand swipe along his arm. "Told you," she said a moment later.

He dipped his hand into the bowl and lifted it to his mouth. "Merlin, it never gets better," he complained, swallowing thickly. "You’d think we’d be used to this by now."

"Hardly," Pansy said. Ron heard her swallow. "I don’t imagine one ever gets used to eating rubbish."

"Rubbish, yeah. I wonder what it is exactly."

"I think I’d rather be kept in the dark on that one."

Ron let out a bitter laugh. "They’ve got that one covered." He shoved the bowl in Pansy’s direction, his appetite suddenly gone. "I’m finished."

"Me too," Pansy said. Ron heard the bowl scrape against the floor as she pushed it away.

It had been a few days since he’d woken from last trip to… wherever he disappeared to when he left the cell. His ankle had been broken again, and his leg had a deep cut on it that was just beginning to scab. He’d only just begun to keep his food down. His body was constantly coiled, a snake waiting to strike, as he braced himself for the next round of torture. His only comfort was that he was certain they hadn’t pulled any useful information from him, not yet. He was still alive after all.

Sometimes he still thought Pansy was an accomplice in his capture, but he found he didn’t much care. It was nice to have someone to curl up against when he slept, and he knew he’d never tell her anything important, not even if they were locked up for years. He was good at keeping secrets when he needed to be.

Something was nagging at him, though: "Do you ever wonder why they never take you out of the cell?"

He felt her stiffen beside him. "Not really," she answered in a hollow voice.

"Because you’re not the one they want to hurt?"

"You still think I’m only here to get secrets out of you, Weasley?"

He shrugged. "Dunno. Maybe. To be honest, I don’t much care either way."

"That’s not why I’m here. It’s not for you."

"Why are you then? I thought – I thought Voldemort - ." He heard her swear softly. "I thought he wanted you, y’know, not alive, which is still confusing - why would he want someone who was working for him dead? – and here you are. Alive, that is. At least I think you are." He reached over a hand and patted her robe-covered knee. "You feel alive, at least."

She put her hand over his to stop his movement. "He’ll kill me eventually," she said in a confident voice. Her hand was still resting on his. "And he’ll kill you as well."

*

He woke up with his foot bent at an awkward angle. His head was resting on a balled up robe, and he could feel Pansy hovering over him. "How long was I out this time?" he asked. He didn’t bother sitting up. Keeping his eyes open when lying down was struggle enough. He shut them; there was no real difference anyway.

"I don’t know," she whispered, leaning close to him. "Your ankle’s broken, I think. And your arm. And there’s blood on your, well, on your thigh." Her cheek was pressed against his, as if feeling for a fever. He could feel it heat up.

"Oh," he said, thinking about what she’d had to do when he was unconscious to deduce what injuries he had sustained, this time. Did she do that every time, map his body in the dark? The thought made him stir uncomfortably. "I… what did you use to wrap my ankle up, and what am lying on?"

She hesitated for a moment. "My robe."

Ron felt a sudden, uneasy rush of heat. "You must be freezing." His voice sounded too low.

"No, Ron, I’m okay."

"You can’t possibly be okay; this place is like a fucking ice bucket."

"No, really," she insisted, "I had on trousers and a T-shirt under my robe. I’m…I’m fine."

"No way," Ron said. He tugged on her wrist with his good arm. "C’mere and at least share my robe with me." She came surprisingly readily, sliding in next to him and curling up against his chest. She was shivering. "Thank you," Ron said. His lips were at her forehead. "Thanks for, well… thanks for sharing your robe with me."

He felt her smile. "You’re welcome. And you too. Thanks."

His arm was pillowed underneath her head. "You’re welcome."

*

"It was Draco."

Ron shifted his head down so his chin met his chest. He was lying on his back, his head resting on Pansy’s balled up robe, while she used his chest as a pillow. His robe was spread meagerly over their upper bodies.

"What was Draco?" he asked. His ankle hadn’t healed properly the last time they’d taken him. He still had shreds of her robe wrapped around it.

"Why he wanted me dead."

"Malfoy was why Voldemort wanted you dead?"

"Yes, he… he wanted me to kill Draco. I just… I couldn’t." Ron could feel her jaw move against his chest as she spoke. Against his side, her heart beat irregularly. "He was my boyfriend, you see." She laughed, bitterly. "And the Dark Lord knew that, and he was… he was testing me or something. I knew what would happen if I didn’t follow through on his orders, or at least I thought I knew, but I couldn’t do it." She breathed quietly. "I warned Draco instead. He went into hiding, with your Order’s help, actually. He begged and begged me to come with him, but I thought I should face my betrayal, just get it over with, because I knew I’d be punished eventually, even if I hid."

Ron imagined what he would do if it was his life or Hermione’s. There was no question.

"I assumed he’d just kill me," she continued, "or send someone to kill me, when he learned what I’d done. I was ready for it. But then… he killed – my father was loyal to him. Always. I didn’t think he’d kill someone loyal to him. But I came home, and they were all gone, my little sister, my brother, my mum and my father. All gone. The house was empty, save for my father’s mask. It was like they’d never existed.

"I wonder sometimes if it would have been better to find their bodies there, no matter how scarred or horrible they would have looked, because then at least I’d know what happened to them." She paused. "Of course, now I know."

Ron swallowed. "How?" His voice didn’t work properly. "How do you know?"

"They’re showing me what they did to my family, how they tortured them. Every time they take you away, and every time they bring you back, more broken, they’re showing me." She was crying wetly. He’d never heard her cry before. He wrapped his arms around her, making soothing noises, like he would to a baby. He felt hollowed out. He’d never been any good with crying women.

"Even though you said you don’t care, I just want you to know: I’m not an accomplice in this, not against you anyway. I wouldn’t kill for him, not Draco, so they killed my family, and I asked Harry for help. I couldn’t think of anyone else to go to. They gave me to you to keep safe. Now… here I am."

Ron breathed out of his nose. He lifted a hand and cupped the back of her head. "And here I am."

Pansy sniffed. He felt her hand grasp the fabric of his shirt, above his beating heart. "Here you are."

*

She began sleeping better, after she cried. Ron could tell the difference immediately. Before, her breath came quickly and she woke with every movement he made. Now, she slept for hours at a time, long sleeps where her breathing slowed and body relaxed. He had to physically touch her to wake her.

The only disadvantage was that now she had time for nightmares.

*

He pictured Harry sometimes, to give him strength. Harry, who must be looking for him by now. Harry was alive, he was sure. They would have moved headquarters after learning of Ron’s capture, just in case, even though Ron couldn’t actually divulge any information on their whereabouts. Not really. Ron sometimes thought he couldn’t tell them anything important at all. Just that Harry still had nightmares where he called out for his parents. Just that Harry’d spent a lot of his youth locked up in small, dark places. Was this what it felt like?

Other times, he was worried that he’d give away the really important things: that he knew about the Horcruxes; that they were getting close to having them all destroyed; that Harry was in love with someone and Voldemort could hurt him by taking her, if he really wanted. He must not have told though, or he’d be dead by now, he was sure.

*

He began to think of any long bout of sleep as nighttime; any hour awake as day. It was the only way to stay grounded in a world where night and day were no different than black and black.

*

It had been forever since he’d remembered a dream.

She was wrapped around him. No one had put their hands on him in a long, long time, and he surged up into her. Her mouth… her mouth was the only thing he wanted to focus on, her mouth and her hands and her cool, cool skin. She tasted like bitter almonds and sweet coffee. She slid herself on top of him, and she was wet, and hot, and a million delicious things he could never articulate. He came with her name on his lips.

Ron woke with a start. He shook, still reeling from the aftershocks of his orgasm. He hadn’t had a wet dream in years, not since that shockingly embarrassing time he’d called out Pomfrey’s name and had awoken to Harry and Seamus laughing hysterically in the dormitory, and they’d never, ever before involved Pansy Parkinson. Did he call her name out loud? He cringed with embarrassment and forced his heart to stop its incessantly fast beating, convinced she could hear it.

She was lying at his side, curled stiffly away from him. He listened for a moment. Her breathing was irregular. Ron tried to ignore the uncomfortable wet spot, tried to push away the embarrassment, and tried to focus on the pain in his ankle. Anything to take his mind off his dream.

It was a long time before sleep found him again. Her breathing was still irregular when he slipped into unconsciousness.

*

Neither of them had mentioned that night in the time they’d been awake. Ron talked about growing up with too many siblings and not enough money, and Pansy talked about what it was like having servants to order around. They discussed their favorite subjects at Hogwarts (Defense and Charms, respectively), and the crazy things their friends did (Neville’s need to sleep with his socks on, every single night, and Millicent’s penchant for yellow underthings). They never brought up the war, or their loved ones, not in any specific detail. His sleep had been blessedly devoid of any erotic dreams for hour after endless, black hour. And they never mentioned that night.

*

His stomach hurt. That was his first conscious thought. He’d probably been throwing up again. Throwing up stomach bile since their gruel supply had stopped coming… over a day ago, it seemed. Her hands were cool against his damp skin. "You’re awake," she whispered. She sounded pleased and worried. Maybe she was starting to wonder if he’d never wake up again. Sometimes he wished he wouldn’t.

"Unfortunately," he said, curling onto his side. Her legs were spread out underneath his cheek.

"Don’t say that," she said. She bent down to press her lips against his forehead. "I’d be lonely if you left me."

He reached out and grabbed hold of her ankle, pushing up her trousers until he felt skin. "I won’t leave you," he promised.

*

He dreamt of kisses on his jaw and a hand pressed against him. His hips shifted off the stone floor, moving into the rhythm above them. His eyes popped open. He wasn’t dreaming. "Pansy?" he said, trying to still his hips and catch her wrist and stop the blood coursing through him. "What are you doing?"

Her tongue flicked out against his ear. He made a sound that was half curse, half moan. "You talk in your sleep," she whispered, her breath tickling his throat. Ron felt himself go warm. She smiled against his bushy cheek.

"What did I say?"

"Just my name," she said. "You called Pansy, over and over."

"Pansy…" he said.

"Like that." His cock was hard against her hand. She had picked up her rhythm again, moving smoothly over the bulge in his trousers. He was having trouble forcing his hips quiet.

"Stop, please."

"No."

"You have to stop," he insisted. His breath was coming in raged bursts now, harsh in his ears. He was dizzy, not _I haven’t eaten in days_ dizzy, but _full up of lust and cool skin and wet kisses_ dizzy, shaking with want.

"Let me do this."

"Merlin, I can’t even think straight," he said.

"That’s sort of the point, to stop all the damn thinking."

"No, listen, I’ll be taking advantage of you."

She laughed, low and throaty. He’d never heard such an erotic sound. "You can barely move, Ron. If anything, I’m taking advantage of you." Her lips met his then, wet and urgent and bitter, and all of his protests died. He moved his arms up, ignoring his tender muscles as he circled her and pulled her near. Their T-shirts were worn thin. He could feel her nipples harden against his chest.

He tugged at her shirt, suddenly craving the feel of her flesh against his. She obliged quickly, moving to sit and yank the slight material over her head. He thought briefly about telling her not to let it go too far, so they could find it easily later, but that thought died on his lips as her nails scrapped against his belly, pushing his shirt out of the way. A hot tongue on his stomach, circling his belly button, before teeth nipped at his flesh. He sucked in sharply, hollowing out his thin stomach as she laughed again, soft and low.

"You feel amazing," he whispered, running his hand along her dry stomach and cupping her small breast. Her nipple was like glass against his palm.

"Mmmm." She pushed herself against him. "You too." She sighed. He thought he’d never grow tired of her sighs.

"So good," she murmured, unzipping his pants and bending back down to kiss his belly before releasing him from his trousers completely.

"Aaaah," he sighed as she licked him once, a long, wet stroke, before engulfing him fully into her hot, steady mouth. He moved one hand to the top of her head, palming it. He could feel her cheeks hollow out. She was straddling his knees and rubbing her hips against him, her small hands pressing against his arse rhythmically. Her mouth was insistent, strong and relentless, and with each circle of her tongue he came closer and closer to exploding. He clenched his stomach muscles. "Shite, Pansy, you’ve got to stop," he said. He pulled her up by her slight shoulders, forcing her to kiss him messily again.

His arm locked around her back, holding her tight, and he jerked her trousers undone. He was desperate for the feel of her, heavy against him. He felt like he was reading Braille, learning her body through touch and taste and sound alone. "Oh," she breathed, when he skimmed his fingers across her thigh. "My," she whispered, when he touched the first crinkle of hair. "Yes," she all but growled when he circled his fingers around the spot that made her hips push against him. "Ron," she sighed when he tasted the flesh of her stomach and the wet between her legs.

She was dripping. He rubbed his fingers harder, pushing them into as she rode his mouth on her knees. He thought he might come from this alone, the feel of her shattering against him.

When she finally slid herself fully down on him, he bucked against her. He could die like this, right now, and welcome it. He wished he could see her face properly, just once, while she twisted her hips against him, pushing down with all of strength she had left in her. She leaned over him, placing tiny kisses across his face. " _Fuck_ ," he said, too lost in sensation to do anything but let her hips circle his, let her ragged nails dig into his upper arms, and let her body contract around him. She echoed his curse.

Behind his eyelids, vivid colors formed; reds and yellows and bright, bright oranges. Colors of the sunrise. He came with her name upon his lips.

*

His eyes were open in the dark. He bent forward to briefly touch his lips to the crown of her head, and she pushed herself back against him, fitting more fully into his embrace. It had been days now since they’d had anything to eat, and their water bucket no longer magically filled itself up. It seemed they had worn out their welcome. Ron worried every once in a while that he had given the Death Eaters whatever information they’d needed, but he pushed the terrifying thought from his mind. It was easy to push unwanted thoughts from his mind now. He slipped in and out of consciousness, only moving to sit when Pansy thought they needed water, or when she grew tired of lying down.

The ache in his body was familiar now. He welcomed it. It reminded him he was still alive. Ron tightened his hold on her. "You were right," he murmured into her hair.

"About what?" She twisted her body around. He could feel her bitter breath upon his cheek.

"We’re never going to see the sun again," he told her.

In the dark, her fingers found his face. He kissed them lightly as they skimmed across his lips. "Shhh," she whispered. "Just close your eyes." She ran her thumbs across his eyelids. He could hear the smile in her voice. "You’ll see it."

End.  



End file.
